


Love of My Life

by eckarius



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley loves his angel, Domestic Fluff, Ineffable Husbands go to a Queen concert, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Queen (Band) References, aziraphale loves his demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 16:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20474237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eckarius/pseuds/eckarius
Summary: Crowley, in a stroke of genius rivaling his invention of the M25, decides to take Aziraphale to see his first rock concert ever. What ensues can only be described as fluffy nonsense.





	Love of My Life

Crowley’s cell pinged in the wee hours of the morning, informing him either that he got a rare call from Aziraphale, or he hadn’t paid Sergeant Shadwell enough for the month. He hoped it was the former, as he did love waking up to the sound of his angel’s voice.

He groaned, pushed his eye mask up onto his forehead and squinted at his phone screen. Within a moment his heart was thudding and he was opening his email, almost violently clicking on the link attached. All he needed to read was “Queen” and “Tour” to decide that he’d get out of bed [ [1] ](https://docs.google.com/document#bookmark=id.vo0jl35866rx).

Crowley decided on Wembley Stadium, he’d been to a few shows there before and liked that it was only a thirty minute drive away. He watched seats disappear before his eyes while he tried to pick the best of the best. However, he didn’t have much time to think, so he picked front row seats in section 142. It didn’t register to him that he purchased two initially, until he checked his digital receipt and confirmed that yes, he subconsciously decided that Aziraphale was going to attend a rock concert for the first time in his six-thousand years.

Aziraphale was too kind to deny a concert ticket, maybe Crowley would just have to get him ear plugs before the show began. He also couldn’t deny overpriced wine.

Crowley decided to tell Aziraphale about the concert a week before. Time escapes immortal beings, and he’s certain that his angel will be able to adapt his schedule. They’re about to pay their bill at the Ritz; Aziraphale is savouring his meal and Crowley is watching his fork move between his plate and his lips. While at first he’d watch Aziraphale eat to silently tell him to finish up, it slowly adapted into a comfort for Crowley. He liked watching the micro expressions cross his face, like he was picking up every individual flavour of the dish and thoroughly enjoying each of them.

“Angel?” He asked, still focused on Aziraphale’s fork.

He looked up, his eyes widened slightly. “Yes, my dear?”

Crowley sat up, taking his elbow off of the table. A worried expression creased Aziraphale’s face, which he quickly had to diffuse.

“I bought us concert tickets.” Crowley pulls up the email on his phone and hands it over to Aziraphale, who reads it over. “But if you have plans, I have a hoard of interested parties lined up to take your ticket.” [ [2] ](https://docs.google.com/document#bookmark=id.v4folkoki9zv)

Aziraphale finished reading it over and smiled across the table at him. “I’m flattered that you want to take me. I didn’t know Elizabeth was a musician, impressive at her age. Nice of this Adam fellow to assist her.”

Crowley had to cover his mouth and silently sputter out a laugh. Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows.

“Queen’s a band, angel.” Aziraphale grumbled to himself, wondering aloud why a band would name themselves so confusingly. That night he still pondered their name choice over a bottle of sixty-year-old wine.

Crowley had forgot to mention that back in the seventies and eighties he was friends with Freddie Mercury. They met at a show in Queen’s infancy, and they spent the next twenty or so years meeting up every now and again, drinking, and giving each other advice. Crowley would fawn over Aziraphale and Freddie would fawn over Mary and Jim. Their friendship was amicable, and Crowley mourned him for a good decade in silence. Crowley didn’t like to think about where he ended up [ [3] ](https://docs.google.com/document#bookmark=id.aywromuuwd9i).

Aziraphale never knew this, as they barely spoke between the sixties and 2008. He’d have to account for the innumerable times he’d tear up during the show, have to look down at the floor and wipe his eyes behind his shades. But Aziraphale would understand. He could always rely on his angel understanding.

The day of the concert arrives and Aziraphale turns up to Crowley’s flat. He gave him a shirt a few nights before, an oversized Queen shirt that he hoped wouldn’t squeeze too badly. Crowley opens the door to find Aziraphale donning the shirt underneath his trench coat, even leaving his waistcoat unbuttoned to show off the logo.

“Good morning, my dear.” His voice is as smooth and soft as ever, he sounds like he’s reading a picture book to a group of unappreciative children.

“You don’t have to wear that, Aziraphale.” While Crowley admires his enthusiasm about the concert, he didn’t actually expect him to wear the shirt. He thought he’d just keep it in the bookshop and maybe wear it on the rare occasion he wanted to take a nap and didn’t want to horrifically wrinkle his usual clothing. Crowley didn’t even expect to get the shirt back, but he liked the idea of Aziraphale having a piece of him at the shop when he couldn’t be there.

Aziraphale shakes his head, running his hands down the front to flatten out the wrinkles. “No, it’s quite comfortable. And it matches yours, doesn’t it?”

Crowley is still wearing his pyjamas, short black pants and a very soft, very distressed Queen tee. The logo does match, but he isn’t going to bring his designated sleep shirt out into the world. It’s a silly thing to be hung up about, but he thinks himself a fashionista in some regards. Also, it’s much too chilly for a cold-blooded being such as himself to go gallivanting around with bare legs. If it got too unbearable, he could sit a bit closer to his angel for warmth. Maybe bare legs weren’t such a terrible idea.

“Oh, no, I have another outfit lined up. Help yourself to the kitchen, I’ll be a while.” He takes a slightly lingering look at Aziraphale wandering over to his electric kettle, pulling out two mugs and two tea bags from his cupboard. He’s lucky that Aziraphale flaked out on apple tree duty, for Satan’s sake without that first chance meeting he wouldn’t have his best friend here with him, defying both of their sides just to spend nights drunkenly blathering at each other and listening to old records.

He’s lucky to have Aziraphale.

Crowley throws his clothes on to the sound of Aziraphale humming a classical tune, one he likely used to listen to in that discreet gentleman’s club. Once he visited the club with his angel, who was delighted to “teach a wiley old serpent to dance properly.” Crowley failed miserably and twisted his legs up into a knot, collapsed against the man beside him and brought all of them to the floor. Though, the highlight of that night was when he was approached by the young man he toppled. He awkwardly flirted with Crowley, who quickly denied his advances. One lingering glance at Aziraphale while he finished talking to a small group of men and began to approach them told the young man everything he needed to know.

Aziraphale leans against the counter, sipping his tea and steeping Crowley’s. He looks up and smiles, holding his steaming mug up to his face. His cheeks flush a light pink.

“You look quite dashing in that shirt,” he says, warmth radiating in his voice. Crowley settles against the opposite counter, striking a subtle pose that Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. They talk and finish their tea before Crowley rushes them out the door.

On the drive to the venue, Crowley blasts an album that was once _ Dark Side of the Moon _. Aziraphale watches Crowley, listening to him explain the band’s history.

“Then they performed on the _ Highlander _ soundtrack and I’ll be damned if you don’t love ‘Princes of the Universe.’” He feels Aziraphale ache for him. He tips his shades down and notices snowflakes beginning to fall. In turn, he tips the heater’s dial to the right. Aziraphale’s face is quickly turning red in response.

“Oh my! Will you need my coat when we get inside?” He admires the small dots of white falling to the road, sticking like powdered sugar to a Turkish Delight. Just the thought summons the scent of rose water and sucrose to his nostrils [ [4] ](https://docs.google.com/document#bookmark=id.dz9j3ti3vq2g).

Crowley shakes his head, resisting the urge to shiver. “I’ll be alright, angel. Oh, listen to this.”

He turns the knob as far as it will go, blaring “Don’t Stop Me Now.” The light turns green in response and they tear down the road, Aziraphale grips the console and the dashboard for dear life. They reach the venue about ten minutes earlier than expected, but immediately grimace at the sheer size of the line. It pours down the walkway, shuddering in heavy coats, wool hats, and thick scarves. Grey clouds emit from the crowd like the whorls of steam coming off of their tea.

“Shit.” Crowley grimaces, holding himself and shaking. The Bentley is a few blocks away, he can’t even wait out the line in his heated car. Though, his suffering is quickly ended.

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley, enveloping him in much-needed heat. He grins softly, though he’s surprised he’d do something so bold. They’d scarcely touched in their whole friendship, maybe once or twice in sixty centuries. Aziraphale isn’t looking at him, while his body is pressed to Crowley he’s watching the line ahead of them, waiting for something to happen.

Crowley looks over to the people around them, wondering if anyone is staring and judging them for touching. Though, more importantly, in the back of his mind he’s wondering if Heaven or Hell are watching right now. Because there was no doubt that if they saw this, they’d be punished horribly.

Just then, the line begins to move. He sighs in relief, they let go of each other and shuffle into the stadium’s doors. They get through the metal detector just fine, and Crowley doesn’t fumble getting the tickets from his back pocket.

He looks over at Aziraphale as they pass a vendor selling beer, but he says he’d like to get their seats. They move down the corridor, finding their portal and stepping through into the actual arena.

Aziraphale looks across the way, spotting a few people like they’re disappearing over the horizon. He stands close to Crowley, who leads them to their seats. They’re right up against the fence, and while they’re extremely far away, they’re still able to see the stage at the very least. Aziraphale sits down in the aisle seat, taking in everything around him.

He’s only gone to orchestra concerts, he’s never been to a concert in an arena like this. He couldn’t even say he’d ever been inside an arena. Crowley has, he’s been to so many concerts in Wembley Stadium that it feels almost like a second home. Or third, perhaps, after the bookshop.

The floor slowly fills up, along with all of the seats around them. Aziraphale takes the time waiting for the show to start to ask Crowley a few more questions about Queen.

“What is your favourite song?” He asks, which gets an offended look out of Crowley.

“You can’t pick a favourite Queen song. You have at least three, if not ten.” He starts going through songs in his head, counting them on his fingers. “Well obviously ‘Brighton Rock,’” he says to himself, leaving Aziraphale to think about which of the songs he heard in the car that he liked.

When Crowley finally gets out of his head, Aziraphale chimes in.

“I quite liked that one about the seven seas.” He says, a pleasant smile on his face. “Oh, and the one that went ‘can anybody find me somebody to love.’ And that best friend one—well, I suppose you’re right.”

The lights dim, and the crowd around them begins to scream. At first it shocks Aziraphale, but he gets adjusted to it quickly. Beside him, Crowley is yelling and pumping his arms in the air, _ whoop _-ing and acting as all of the hype that the show needs. Aziraphale revels in Crowley’s happiness, resting his hands on the guard rail and cheering himself. Albeit, in a much softer voice than everyone else there.

Each song fades into each other for Aziraphale, but the audience is making the show for him. Being an angel in the middle of a screaming, adoring crowd is an amazing feeling. Crowley is singing along to each song, he tries to cheer over everyone else even though he’s drowned out by the next section over. Aziraphale joins him to try and help him stand a chance. However, his energy is taken to another level when the drummer begins singing.

He loudly sings each lyric, something about loving your car, and Aziraphale is certain this song was written for him. Crowley starts panting after the song ends, his face has turned tomato red.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale looks up at him, he quickly nods that he’s alright. He miracles himself a bottle of water, which he quickly drains and sets down beside his foot. Then the next song starts. Crowley is prepared.

It’s crude, Aziraphale isn’t quite comfortable listening to songs about fornication, but the audience is invested, and Crowley is shaking his hips in the goofiest way. He’s certain that any moment he’ll shift into his snake form and start slithering around wildly [ [5] ](https://docs.google.com/document#bookmark=id.yhxf50mjr33). That would be an interesting concert evacuation.

A few clapping breaks later, the guitarist comes out onstage and sits down. He says a few words that Aziraphale can’t quite make out, and he begins strumming a song. Beside him, Crowley braces for tears. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s heard this song, either on a record or performed live, every time he hears it he gets misty-eyed and soft.

The crowd sings along and waves their cell phone torches, the amount of love in the crowd makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter. He holds his hands over his chest, clasping them together and smiling warmly. He hears Crowley’s voice begin to wobble and looks over at him quickly.

Crowley looks down at him, getting lost in his eyes. The way the light hits them, makes them glimmer and sparkle is entrancing. He stops for a moment, admiring the rosy hue of his cheeks, the soft smile on his face. Aziraphale is also lost in Crowley, soaring off of his unabashed joy. It’s so rare to see him so happy, his chest swells.

Though, their moment is interrupted when a drunk woman pushes them aside, rushing up the stairs to a rubbish bin. While Crowley immediately tries to resume their staring, the song has ended, and Aziraphale is loudly clapping. He’s upset to have the moment end, but it’s better to not do something dumb in public.

The camera hooked up to the monitors above the stage pans over the crowd, cheering, clapping, holding each other close. Crowley sets his hand down on the guard rail and leans forward, admiring the ecstasy flowing through the stadium is infectious. A pressure rests on his hand, he glances over and finds Aziraphale’s on top of his own. He smiles gently and turns back to the stage. Adam sings “Somebody to Love,” and Crowley’s insides lurch forward, like they’re trying to tell him something but he’s refusing to understand or acknowledge it.

“Who Wants to Live Forever” becomes a personal ballad for Aziraphale, Crowley sings it to him while emphatically pointing and gesturing. The people to their right glower at him, but Aziraphale applauds him when he finishes his performance. He makes a note to find a copy of that song to play in the bookshop when he didn’t want to put on a pretentious air.

Crowley watches Aziraphale struggle to follow “We Will Rock You,” just the same as he did during “Radio Ga Ga.” While he could gavotte like no one living today, his sense of rhythm was pathetic. It made him laugh, seeing his angel struggle like that but still enjoy himself.

By the time the show ends, the snow has piled up and the Bentley has coated in a thick blanket of white. Crowley shivers on the walk over to the car, and Aziraphale wraps one arm around the demon, drunk from the sheer emotion of the concert.

Once they’re in the car and the heater has been dialed as high as it will go, Aziraphale flips through the songs on whatever CD is in the player right now, finding the one that played during the moment. When he does, he settles down into his seat, closing his eyes for a brief moment of peace before Crowley tears down the road. For a while, Crowley sits still, listening to the song. Aziraphale gets his own encore when he feels Crowley’s love, flashing like bright fireworks.

He melts. Aziraphale looks over at him when the song ends, but Crowley rams his foot on the gas pedal and they speed back to his flat in Mayfair. They share a bed that night, even after Crowley’s insistence to sleep in his office, and Aziraphale’s equally-fervent argument that he didn’t need to sleep. However, they both give in quickly, deciding that they’re both too exhausted to argue any further. Aziraphale resists getting into bed for a moment, not used to sharing a bed with anybody, but the moment he lies down he regrets his hesitance. He feels like he’s floating on a heavenly cloud.

Crowley falls asleep within thirty minutes, leaving Aziraphale to lie on his side, watching his peaceful face. He wishes he could see his dreams, he’d love to see what’s relaxed him so. Aziraphale smiles gently, lying his hands beneath his cheek.

“Goodnight, my wiley old serpent.” His voice is soft, but Crowley’s lip pulls gently. Aziraphale turns onto his other side and settles down, but not before his demon grumbles back at him. It sounds a bit like “g’night, luvuvmuhlyfe.”

* * *

[1] While he did enjoy a good morning call from Aziraphale, he’d go right back to sleep afterwards. And, to be fair, he went back to bed after he bought his tickets.

[2] Truthfully, Crowley thought he’d rather not attend if Aziraphale wasn’t going to come with him, and Crowley has as few acquaintances as his angel. There wasn’t much fun in attending a concert alone, he’d learned that much.

[3] He’s treated very comfortably in Hell, made an honourary duke on sheer reputation alone. And it didn’t hurt that Beelzebub had a soft spot for “Seaside Rendezvous.”

[4] Crowley had purchased a much too sugary rose-scented shampoo a while ago and only started using it a few weeks before the concert. The scent was almost sickeningly strong, but Aziraphale had a great reaction to it, so he continued to use it.

[5] If Aziraphale plays any of Crowley’s records in the bookshop, he’ll turn and slink around rhythmically, which tends to either terrify or intrigue customers.

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again: the husbands are adorable and i would die for them.


End file.
